Page 106 of Surfside Sisters

The last time Keely had seen the garage apartment, it had been a kind of hideout for Sebastian and his college buddies to crash in during the summer. Futons, sleeping bags, and men’s underwear and socks had covered the floor. The bathroom had been disgusting.

Now the large open space was clean and bright and shining. The walls were a pearl gray with marshmallow white trim, the floor carpeted wall to wall in a slightly darker gray. Beautifully framed mirrors hung in strategic spots to reflect the light and make the place appear larger. Doors led off to two bedrooms bright with light from the windows, and Brittany’s room was cheerful with pastel colors. At the back of the living room was a state-of-the-art kitchen and a table with four chairs and a high chair, and in the high chair sat Brittany. Almost a year old, Brittany was obviously Tommy Fitzgerald’s child. She had glossy black hair and huge dark eyes and a natural, unaffected charm.

“The place is lovely,” Keely said. “And Isabelle—Brittany.”

Isabelle was so pleased she did what she did as a girl, squeezing her shoulders practically up to her ears. “I know.”

“Hello, Brittany,” Keely said. “I’m Keely.” She wished she’d brought a present for the little girl.

Brittany’s stubby fingers mashed a banana into her tray. Lifting her hand, she offered a glob of banana to Keely.

Keely’s gaze flew to meet Isabelle’s eyes, and they shared a smile of mutual delight. Tears came to Keely’s eyes.

“She’s lovely, Isabelle.”

“I know. We’re so lucky.”

Isabelle’s computer was open on the kitchen table. Isabelle slid into the facing chair. “Stand next to me, Keely. Put your hands on my shoulders. That will strengthen the luck.”

“When did you get so superstitious? I promise you, it’s not luck that will decide the future of your book.”

“Please.”

Keely took a moment to wonder whether she should tell Isabelle what she really thought about the book. She held her tongue. Whatever she did, it seemed she was once again betraying Isabelle.

She put her hands on Isabelle’s shoulders.

“Wish Mommy good luck!” Isabelle told her daughter.

Brittany blew a raspberry at her mother.

Isabelle took an operatically deep breath and hit Send.

“There. It’s done.” Isabelle stood up. “You won’t drink champagne, so will you have some tea?”

“Please.”

Isabelle set about boiling the water and filling the tea egg with leaves of white tea.

While Isabelle was fixing the tea, Keely spotted a sheaf of papers on the table. It was a story about teenagers on the island who’d been told by strangers in a yacht to search the Polpis Harbor beaches for a suitcase. If they found it, the strangers would give them each five hundred dollars’ reward.

“Okay,” Isabelle said. “Now. Let’s talk.” She pulled out a chair at the table, removed a stray piece of macaroni, and sat down.

“Isabelle,” Keely said. “What’s this?”

“It’s only something I’m playing around with when I’m not in the mood to work on my novel. I guess you’d call it a YA, young adult. It’s probably stupid, but I like writing it.”

“Isabelle, from what I’ve read, it’s marvelous. You have a completely different voice here, and the action comes fast. You should bring it to class.”

Isabelle glanced sideways at Keely. “So do you know any young adult agents?”

“Actually, no. I don’t. But I could probably find out.”

“Well, maybe wait? I want to see if my adult book gets published first.”

Isabelle’s computer dinged.

“Oh!” Isabelle jumped up. “Maybe that’s from Sally Hazlitt!” She hurriedly clicked. “Listen to this! ‘Dear Isabelle Fitzgerald, thank you for sending me your manuscript. I’ll read it within the next two weeks and get back to you. Sally Hazlitt.’ ” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Keely, how am I going to survive the next two weeks?”

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